


oceans you once crossed (now they disappear)

by SheWhoWalksUnseen



Series: ColdWestAllen Week 2018 [1]
Category: The Flash (TV 2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - 1940s, Angst and Hurt/Comfort, ColdWestAllen Week 2018, Developing Relationship, F/M, Flashbacks of past Westallen and Coldflash on their own, Grief/Mourning, Historical Inaccuracy, I Wrote This Instead of Sleeping, M/M, Mentions of Background Characters, Multi, Night Terrors, No one has a fun time in this, Polyamory, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, brief description of panic attacks, mentions of background ships, putting that tag in just in case
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-06-05
Updated: 2018-06-05
Packaged: 2019-05-18 05:20:01
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 13,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/14846573
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SheWhoWalksUnseen/pseuds/SheWhoWalksUnseen
Summary: "Do you ever think about what will happen after?""After?""You know... After the war ends? When we go home?"When. Not if. There was never an if, never a doubt in the other’s mind.





	oceans you once crossed (now they disappear)

**Author's Note:**

> The prompt for the first day of ColdWestAllen's "Changing Channels" Week was "Historical" and while I'm a sucker for 1920's aus, I got this (horrible) plot bunny for a 1940’s au the moment I saw the prompt and it just...devolved from there. Heed the tags if any of them make you uncomfortable because this isn't sweet or sappy.
> 
> Title comes from the ballad version of "Welcome Home", which comes from the musical Bandstand. It may or may not have given me inspiration for certain aspects of this story.

_"Do you ever think about what will happen after?"_

_"After?"_

_"You know... After the war ends? When we go home?"_

When _. Not_ if _. There was never an_ if _, never a doubt in the other’s mind._

_He laughed, quiet and bitter. The sound was harsh in the near-still silence but they were far enough from their comrades not to disturb their sleep._

_"Not really, kid."_

_The sigh beside him made his lips curl, the warmth of the other man's breath fanning over his neck as he shifted closer, arms tight around his middle. "I told you to stop calling me that." He didn’t sound upset, despite the pout he felt pressed against his skin, more petulant and exasperated than anything._

_"Maybe I just like seeing you riled up."_

_“Oh, I bet.” The other snorted, his own smile growing as it pressed against the sweat-stained skin on his neck. “You’re a real charmer, you know that?”_

_“How else would I have wound up here with you?”_

_"_ Leonard. _"_

_"What?" He glanced over his shoulder with a smirk. "It's the truth."_

_"Uh huh. You didn’t answer my question, you know."_

_He laid there for a couple moments more, indulging himself in the feeling of the other's thumbs rubbing against the scars littering his skin, gentle caresses against raised and puckered skin in a way he had never been touched. He shut his eyes against the night air and faced forward, swallowing down the sneer he knew would destroy this bubble of tranquility, this calm before the storm of the next morning and the hell of the days to follow._

_"All the time, Barry."_

 

_*_

 

Two weeks after the parades, after the soldiers returned home, after the tears and countless embraces that swarmed the streets of Central City finally began to fade as a semblance of normalcy returned to the world, Iris came home from work to find a man standing on her front porch, one hand raised halfway to the door.

She paused in her search for her house key. For a moment, she contemplated turning around and walking back in the direction she had come.

He didn’t appear threatening, though his clothes were worn and looked a little small. He wore a dark coat to combat the autumn breeze with scuffed shoes and black trousers to match. His other hand was shoved into his coat pocket, curled tight if the small bulge was anything to note, as if he were summoning courage from a white-knuckled grip. Iris couldn’t make out his face well from this distance, but she didn’t think she would have recognized him if she could.

She hadn’t gotten many visitors aside from well-wishers, family, or the occasional friend in the past year. It was strange, how easily she had become used to solitude. And now a stranger was knocking with trepidation, his muscles tense, as if he were bracing himself at the gates of hell rather than a lonely woman’s door.

“Do you need something?” Iris called to him. The man turned, his eyes widening the slightest before he schooled his expression to a calm mask. He must not have heard her approach.

She would’ve remembered a pair of blue eyes like his, murky pools that held her gaze with earnest as they ran over her face, cold and calculating. The shorn hair and specks of gray didn’t help jog her memory.

She didn’t know him from church. Perhaps he had been one of the many invited to the funeral?

He lowered his hand, not moving from his spot on the porch. Iris wondered how long he’d been standing there before she left work, gathering his courage to knock.

“Are you Iris West?” The low timbre made her stomach twist. He reminded her of a mourner at a funeral, dressed in black with a solemn face and polite condolences about how  _it truly was a shame it had to happen to you, miss,_ and  _you ought to be real proud_.

Iris’ jaw clenched before she could hide it. She wasn’t in the mood for more false apologies.

“I am. And who might you be?”

Something close to hesitance flickered in his eyes. The look softened his features, sending unease through Iris’ bones. This wasn’t pity for what might have been, or for emotions she had repressed since the telegram had arrived on that warm spring day when her life was uprooted – she’d had enough time to become familiar with those looks over the past few months.

The stranger inclined his head, moving his other hand into his coat pocket (likely to hide the tremble she could have sworn she saw spread from the tips of his fingers). The ice-cold stare returned, and she wished it gone even before he spoke, wanting selfishly to see her own sorrow reflected in those blue eyes.

“My name is Leonard Snart. I was… I fought alongside your fiancé. Barry Allen.”

Her heart flew to her throat. She didn’t miss the way he faltered on Barry’s name, the same way she and her father and Wally all did nowadays. Something about this struck her, sparked recognition in her gut in the same way that flicker had.

Iris’ mouth was moving before her brain could catch up. “Sorry, would that be Leonard as in…‘Len’?”

His mouth twitched, like he wanted to smile but had long since forgotten how. “I believe it’s usually the other way around. But you may call me Len, if you want.”

The attempt at a joke didn’t lessen the grip of steel around her heart.

She still kept Barry’s letters in a trunk in the attic, unable to keep them in her room for fear of pouring over each page for hours, losing herself to his words. Back then she’d laughed at the ridiculous number of pages he would send, reading aloud the more light-hearted sections for her father and Wally’s amusement, skipping the mentions (or sometimes implied well enough for her chest to tighten) of war or those who had fallen.

It had been months, but she knew the one name that appeared in every letter, written in scrawling cursive with an unsteady hand.

This was no visit from a mourner, from a neighbor wishing her well in her time of need. If the haunted look in his eyes wasn’t enough to convince her of that, Barry’s letters were.

Iris had been working on burying her grief, trying to get past the hollow smiles and the gloom that hung over her family in a raging storm cloud. She had tried to be strong for her brother and her father, who were mourning as much as she was, to move past the pitying stares and strained smiles sent her way on the street. There was still work, after all; people needed to be informed about what was happening, even after the war had ended, and she couldn’t give up on them now.

Her voice failed her as she opened her mouth, her throat dry as her tongue lay unresponsive. Iris wasn’t sure what she ought to say.

 _Thank you for your service_?  _How have you been_?  _How well did you two know each other_?

It wasn’t as if she and this man – this stranger, frankly – knew each other, aside from mentions from Barry in his letters or while he was serving. He looked as uncomfortable as she felt, likely hadn’t wanted to come at all if his tense posture was anything to go by.

Leonard –  _Len_ ,  _he prefers Len_ , Barry had written, that infectious laughter evident in the ink – sighed and stepped off the porch. She could see the anxiety in his shoulders lingering still. She wondered if he had known she would recognize his name, if he had been prepared to face her months after the war had ended, even as it felt like her life had ended on that kitchen floor.

That thought strengthened Iris’ nerves. She straightened her spine and fished for her key in her coat pocket with one hand as she held his gaze.

“Would you like to come in? I have a feeling we have a lot to talk about.”

 

*

 

_“Are you alright?”_

_She stifled the petty urge to snap at him, feeling herself stiffen as he broke the oppressive silence that had hung over them all evening. She had hoped that they wouldn’t have to speak about this yet, that they could ignore everything for tonight._

_“I’m fine. Just tired.”_

_He knew her too well to believe that. She heard his footsteps draw closer, could practically hear his racing thoughts from here._

_“Iris, we’ve talked about this.” Despite the softness in his voice, the words echoed in her ears, filling the kitchen as she stopped drying the dishes in the sink._

_“I know.”_

_She heard him step closer, felt his arms wrap around her waist, not trapping her against the counter, never pushing her. He’d been quiet all day, all throughout dinner, trying to hide the way he glanced in her direction when he thought she was preoccupied. She knew she was being cruel, selfish, for being equally distant today of all days, but every time she tried to breach the elephant in the room she had to fight back sobs._

_Her father had called her earlier to ask if she wanted him to come over, to wish them well. She’d turned him down, saying it would be nice to have dinner together before he left. Just the two of them. He promised to meet them tomorrow morning anyway._

_She wondered if perhaps she ought to have let him come. He would have known what to say._

_“Do you not want me to go?”_

_She choked on a humorless laugh. The radio in the living room filled the house with faint music. Somehow the sound set her nerves on edge further. “Of course you’re going, Barry. Don’t be ridiculous.”_

_“That’s not what I asked.”_

_Why did they have to have this conversation tonight? They had already established that what was to happen would happen, and that was that._

_She leaned back into his chest, the familiar, sturdy warmth grounding her. She set down the dish she had been scrubbing at with the towel. “There will always be a part of me that wants you to stay.”_

_He pulled her closer, resting his chin on her hair. She could feel him swallow against her, feel his thumbs rubbing her stomach through her dress._

_“I’m sorry,” he murmured._

_She twisted in his grasp, forcing him to meet her eyes. Sadness, she could deal with tonight. Guilt, she could not. “You don’t need to apologize, Barr.”_

_“I – ”_

_“You and I both know that you would’ve found a way overseas even if you were underage or you had to sneak onboard,” she told him firmly. “You’re not going to sit back and wait for news when you could be out there helping.”_

_He ducked his head, a smile playing on his lips. “Are we talking about me or you here?” he teased._

_She swatted his shoulder. This time it elicited a real smile. They both knew neither of them planned to be idle when they were needed, that action had to be taken. If she could join the army herself, she would have – and not just to join him._

_“I’m serious. I know what this means to you, and you’re not going to give that up because of me.”_

_“You’re my world,” he said, his smile ebbing. “I’m just as scared as you are. I don’t want to leave, I don’t. I don’t want to worry you. But someone has to help. I can’t help from here.”_

_She sucked in a shaky breath. “I’m always going to worry about you. Just promise me… promise me you’ll be safe.”_

_He moved his hands to cup her face, still as gentle as before. She laid her own hands over his, squeezing them even as she stared back at the wet sheen in his green eyes. She remembered the torn expression he’d worn when he had shown her the letter, when he told her he was shipping out in less than a week. Mrs. Morrison, who lived next door, had been delighted to hear the news when she had told her the day after, proclaiming that there was no greater love than a man who served his country (and family, she had added; Mrs. Morrison was obsessed with their prospects of having children, even after she had told her they weren’t thinking of that quite yet). Wally would’ve signed up himself if he wasn’t underage and had wanted to hear all about where he might be headed. Even her father, despite the worry in his eyes, had been supportive, clasping a hand on his shoulder to wish him well._

_Part of her wanted to squeeze him to her chest and keep him there until the war was over, until the danger passed. It was an irrational urge, but nonetheless tempting._

_They had planned to marry in three months. The thought of having to count the days until he returned, until he was safe in her arms and_ alive _, ached deep in her bones._

_Something must have displayed these thoughts plainly in her eyes because his own shut for a moment. He pressed his forehead to hers and she suppressed the small gasp that threatened to leave her lips._

_“I’ll be home before you know it,” he promised, hushed and fervent. “I’ll write you every day until I’m home, I promise.”_

_“Every day?” she said, unable to stop herself from teasing even as she blinked back tears._

_“Every day I can,” he conceded._

_She gripped his hands tighter, clinging to this brief moment in the eye of the storm waging outside their door. Those bright eyes met hers and the dam holding back her emotions began to crack. She surged forward, closing the inches between them, and he met her halfway, kissing her hard, desperation unspoken. She didn’t care that they both were trembling or that the salt of their tears was mingling with every shared breath. All she cared about was holding on, pressing into the kiss, cradling his face as he held her own. She didn’t want to let go, didn’t want to think about what came tomorrow when he walked out that front door and disappeared until god-knows-when._

_She couldn’t lose him, lose_ this _._

_By the time they pulled away, their faces were wet, their breathing shallow as they stood in the dim light of the kitchen, simply holding one another. Neither dared speak for a long time, the weight of everything they feared dangling over their heads like the sword of Damocles, as if everything would come crashing down on them if they voiced the terror that remained. She closed her eyes and wrapped her arms around his neck, burying her face in his shirt._

_“I’ll come home,” he whispered again. “I promise.”_

*

 

Len wasn’t sure why he had agreed to stay for dinner. Hell, he should have run the second he realized she had no intention of letting him leave. He had figured a simple, short conversation would be enough to satisfy her, to scratch the itch that wouldn’t leave him alone these past weeks, even after Lisa had hugged him and teased him about being antsy around the apartment. He was lucky she was letting him stay, though, until he found his own place. He suspected she would be moving in with that science teacher at the nearby school and it was only a matter of time before he was given a deadline to find a new place. Not that Lisa would ever  _call_  it a deadline, though she might begin hounding him about it in a month if he didn’t find  _something_  by then.

He was happy for her. Truly, he was. Lisa wasn’t one to wait around for him to return home. She’d had more than enough practice when their father was alive to know not to expect him back some nights. She’d learned it was easier to push through the pain, the abandonment, just as he had.

Still, he would have had to be blind not to notice the tears in her eyes when she’d hugged him. They’d never been good at expressing emotions plainly, but Len knew she’d missed him. They had never been apart for more than a few months, and even then, they’d still found time to call or check in. They were a package deal when they were younger, never one without the other when they could help it, and they never kept secrets from each other.

Until now.

Lisa didn’t know about the terrors that kept him wide awake, about the ghosts he’d brought back to America in the wake of victory, ghosts that haunted him enough to scratch and itch at his veins until he gave in to what they wanted. She didn’t know about the hell of war, the way gunshots and loud noises forced him to suppress the instinctive flinch.

She didn’t know about Barry.

He wouldn’t know how to explain it to her.

Hell, he didn’t know how he would be able to explain it to  _Iris West_.

Sitting at the woman’s kitchen table as she got them both glasses of water wasn’t an experience he knew how to handle. Watching her bring over the tuna noodle casserole with a thin smile, struggling to hide her burning curiosity and anxiety… He wasn’t meant to see these things. He wasn’t meant to intrude on her life, no matter what promises he’d made.

Len didn’t know much about Iris, aside from what he’d been told by Barry. He’d called her strong, independent, and brave, said she wasn’t afraid to do what she had to do to keep people informed ( _she’s a journalist_ , Barry had said with a spark of joy in his eyes as he leaned forward in the firelight _, and she’s the best one out there_ ). Len hadn’t expected a weepy widow – not that he wasn’t preparing himself at the front door for such a reaction; grief changes people, after all – but he also hadn’t expected her to be so…calm. She had hardly reacted, aside from the clear surprise and sorrow on her face when he had introduced himself, to his presence.

Maybe Iris was stronger than even Barry had thought.

If not for the size of the house – no woman would live alone in a home clearly meant for a family – and the pictures on the walls and on the mantle of family and her fiancé, he would have wondered if she had moved on. He didn’t know when she had received the news, if it had been months after or if they had sent the telegram the day after. He certainly wasn’t about to ask such a rude question.

(He didn’t think he could handle knowing even if he did. The look in her eyes when he’d said Barry’s name lingered in the forefront of his mind. Somehow that memory itched worse than the ghosts clinging to his every move like shadows with sad, lopsided grins.)

They ate in silence for a few minutes before Iris spoke, her brow furrowed. “I’m sorry if this seems forward. I just…He wrote a lot about you. In his letters, I mean. I figured this was the least I could do.”

“You didn’t have to,” Len insisted, attempting to sound cordial and not unnerved as his stomach clenched. He deserved nothing from this woman, least of all tuna noodle casserole after waiting at her door.

(He didn’t dwell on the fact that Barry had written enough about him – because  _of course_  the damn kid had – for his fiancée to recognize him by name. He didn’t focus on anything that might have been said, on what he could have  _possibly_  convinced her of to cause her to open her door to a mere stranger.)

“No, really, it’s fine.” She paused and cast a glance around the kitchen. Her lips turned down at the corners for a moment, that melancholy stare beginning to reappear before she turned back to face Len, forcing a smile. “It’s been a while since I’ve had guests, anyway, so  _someone_  has to help me finish this casserole.”

“Good thing I’m hungry. Didn’t have much time for lunch today. Otherwise, you’d be out of luck.”

Iris snorted and shook her head. “Well, good, because I don’t expect to eat all of this by myself. I had enough left over for two after dinner with my father and my brother yesterday. I hope it’s alright?”

“It’s delicious,” he assured her.

She sent him a grateful smile and they drifted back into silence. Len kept his eyes on his meal.

Iris began to fidget after a few minutes, her hands twitching.

He didn’t mean to make her uncomfortable. God knows why she opened her door after he tried to refuse her offer for dinner. Neither of them wanted to have this conversation. He wondered if Barry had mentioned the possibility of Len coming somehow in his letters, if he had tried to prepare her just in case.

He wondered how much she knew, how much Barry had gone into detail about what had happened during the war.

 _I want you to check in on her,_  Barry had said, holding up a hand to assuage the rising protests on Len’s tongue.  _Make sure she’s alright, that’s all. Joe and Wally will help, they’ll be grieving too, and she’ll want to help them first. She’ll try and shut out the pain. I just… I need to know that she’ll be fine, even if I’m not –_

Len gritted his teeth, forcing himself to take another bite of the dinner as his stomach churned again. If Iris noticed the way his knuckles were beginning to pale, she made no mention of it.

“Why are you here, Len?”

Straight to the point, then. He didn’t look up from his plate, pursing his lips as he cut his next piece.

“I think we both know why.” He kept his tone calm and collected, as if he were unfazed by her bluntness. After all, Iris didn’t sound accusing, merely…uncertain and a little sad.

She set her fork down as he ate. She was nowhere near finished with her meal, but he had a feeling she wasn’t going to eat for a while.

“Why did you wait so long?”

That was not the next question he had been expecting. Len glanced at her. “Two weeks after returning home for the first time in two years is  _long_  to you, Miss West?”

“If I’m calling you Len, you can call me Iris,” she told him with a roll of her eyes. “And that’s not what I meant.”

“Oh?”

“He mentioned, a few times, that he wanted us to meet. I didn’t think about it when… well, when it happened.” Iris frowned. “I don’t know. I don’t think I ever thought you’d show up on my doorstep, to be honest.”

Neither had he. It had taken him longer than two weeks to figure out whether he’d return to Central City and seek her out in the first place. He’d made the promise on a whim, to appease Barry before he quietly asked the same for Lisa (whom he knew would sooner throw her shoe at the man than listen to him talk about her brother if he didn’t make it) but he understood the desperate gleam behind those eyes, the worry that endured. He’d want someone he trusted to watch over his sister.

Looking up the fiancée of his…well, of  _Barry Allen_  had never been on his to-do list.

He blamed it entirely on those green eyes, on the blinding pearly whites that greeted him when he teased the other, on the soft dimples he had long since given up resisting.

 

*

 

_“We have to retreat! We’re going to be overrun!”_

_“Unless you plan on getting riddled with bullets, we can’t exactly make a run for it, kid.”_

_The soldier near him frowned. “I’m twenty-four, hardly a – ”_

_“Is_ now _really the time for this?”_

_He opened his mouth to continue arguing but a couple more shots drew their attention and they turned in unison to fire at the approaching enemy line. Pain spiked in his left shoulder and he dropped lower behind the bushes, swearing under his breath. One of the bullets had struck its target after all. He set his gun in his lap, tearing at the fabric of his uniform with one hand to check how deep it went._

_Judging by the way the other’s eyes were widening, the blood that was slowly starting to stain his shirt was more than noticeable._

_“Shit! Are you - ?”_

_“Shoot first, ask questions later,” he snapped, grimacing as he shoved at the collar of his uniform. Fuck, it was in there good and deep._

_The other dropped down beside him, moving his hands away from the collar so he could get a better look, ignoring the half-hearted swats at his side to_ get up and keep shooting, you idiot _! His brow furrowed in concentration and his eyes darted between the continuous gunfire and the wound._

_If the circumstances were different, he would’ve taken the time to ponder the odd charm of that worried expression. As it was, he was much busier gritting his teeth against the pain and preparing to rejoin the fight._

_His efforts to get up were halted by surprisingly firm hands pushing him back into a sitting position before the man cast another glance around their hiding place. “I saw the rest retreating a few minutes ago. We may have to make a run for it.”_

_“I told you, we can’t run. We’re pinned down.”_

_“Well, we have to do_ something _. You’re hurt and we’re too far from the others to yell for reinforcements.”_

 _“I’m shot, not_ dead _, kid.”_

_“Don’t joke about that,” the soldier snapped, those puppy-dog eyes narrowing. “We will be if we stay here.”_

_The stern tone caught him off-guard. He didn’t like the way it set him on edge to see someone young so affected by the chaos around them. It reminded him of Lisa hiding behind his leg as Lewis drew closer with a broken bottle in hand, spewing slurs and insults._

_“When I say so, follow me,” the other continued, oblivious to his newfound tension. “The trees should give us cover. We just need a head-start.”_

_He raised an eyebrow. “We’re going to need a better plan than_ that _if you’re keen on not letting me die.”_

_“It’ll work.” To his credit, only a flicker of anxiety behind his gaze betrayed his uncertainty. “Trust me.”_

_Another shell went off – thankfully not close by, but the sound rang in his ears. The two of them flinched in unison._

_He exhaled a harsh breath. The pain from the wound was going to get worse the longer he sat still and did nothing. Not that running would help, but he didn’t have many options if he wanted to ensure he got the bullet out._

_The soldier had a point: they did need to retreat._

_“Fine,” he bit out. “But you better know what you’re doing, kid.”_

_Those eyes – which were a rather lovely shade of green, now that he had the time to study them closer – brightened even as their owner shook his head in exasperation. “You could at least call me ‘Private’, you know?”_

_“It’s shorter. Besides, not like I know your name.”_

_“Barry Allen.” The soldier smiled, his cheeks glowing as he held out a hand. It took a pause before the hand was accepted. Something twisted in his chest as he did, winding tight and apprehensive around his heart in tentative spirals._

_“Leonard Snart. Now, are you planning on running anytime soon or are we going to sit here a while longer?”_

*

 

“Were you there?”

Len cast her a look, amusement tugging at the corners of his face. They’d migrated to the sofa, sitting in silence and finding chances for small talk when they could. Somehow his cool presence was comforting in her too-big home, with picture frames and dusty clothes sitting in the attic in boxes she had yet to unpack. It had been ages since she had had company aside from family. Barry’s presence still clung to the house despite the emptiness left behind in his physical absence.

(She wondered if he sensed it too, if he felt the weight of Barry with him even now after the war had ended. How much had they been through together? Barry wasn’t descriptive in some of his retellings of the battles; he tended to skip the more violent and pessimistic aspects, trying to stay positive – mostly likely for her sake.)

“You thinking of anywhere specific or…?”

She snorted before she could stop herself. It wasn’t funny, it really wasn’t. “I mean when he… Well…”

Len’s expression shuttered and he turned away. It was enough of an answer.

Her chest ached at the sight of the mask he was pulling back onto his features.

“The telegram,” Iris started to say, her voice softer than she intended. She cut herself off as the words stuck in her throat, flaring on the tip of her tongue.

“What about it?”

The tension in the room pressed on her shoulders, urging her to speak. Iris swept a stray dark curl behind her ear and bit her lip. She didn’t want to dance around the subject any longer, but she knew offending someone who had known Barry well – perhaps as well as she had – was the last thing she wanted.

“It never said how he… How he…”

Len’s finger, which had been tracing the rim of the glass, froze. His expression was inscrutable as he stared at the picture frames on the mantle.

“Why do you want to know?”

“They wouldn’t tell me. I just… I want to know what happened.”

His lips curled into a sneer. “Trust me, you don’t.”

Iris sighed. “Len, please. It’s all I’ve wanted to know since I got the telegram. Was he at peace when it happened? Was it quick?”

“There are no funerals or coffins or nice eulogies in war, Iris.” The bitterness in his tone did nothing to lessen the ache in her chest. “There are no flowers and family to console or suits to dress the dead in. It isn’t like we have time to say a prayer for everyone who – ” He cut himself off and shut his eyes.

She remembered the look she had assumed was hesitance an hour before and watched a glimmer of that expression peer through the cracks of Len’s rigid mask despite his best efforts to seal them. Iris pressed a hand to her heart, swallowing hard.

No, it wasn’t hesitance that she had seen. This almost looked like  _grief._

The same grief that had shattered her very being and sent her sobbing on the kitchen floor.

 _He’s a good man, Iris,_  Barry had written, his ‘g’ curling gently on the paper as if to emphasize his point.  _He doesn’t think so, and he may act like an ass at times, but he is. If you were here, you’d see it too._

Iris edged closer on the sofa to Len, placing a hand on his thigh. His eyes shot to meet hers, hard and uncertain.

“I know Barry asked you to check in on me,” she murmured, ignoring the flash of surprise written on his face. “He mentioned something about doing the same for your sister if you were the one who…” She shook herself as the gloom started to creep back into her bones. “Lisa. Her name is Lisa, right?”

Len paused before he nodded to confirm, giving her the courage to push on the subject. “Well, he would want me to know what happened too. He would’ve told Lisa and he would’ve wanted you to tell me.”

“You won’t want to know.”

Iris frowned. “If I’m ever going to fully move on, I need to know what happened to Barry. No matter how painful it is.”

Len’s blue eyes burned as he gazed back at her. He appeared to be considering his decision, but it was difficult to tell whether he truly would explain. The longer he remained quiet the more she wanted to squirm and hide. She couldn’t help but get the sense that he was judging the truth behind her words.

She would always love Barry. She would always miss him. It hurt every day to be without him, to know that he was buried somewhere overseas in a foreign country and would never return home. But she meant what she said: she needed to know what had happened. Whatever it was, it had clearly shaken Len.

Len rose to his feet, brushing off his trousers. “It’s late. I need to get home.”

Her heart sank. “Len – ”

He left the room before she could call for him. She hesitated, hearing him head into the hall.

Iris bit back the surge of anger on her tongue,  _how dare you_ s that hung on her lips as she stood and wiped her eyes. She shouldn’t have pushed. It was too much, too far. She wasn’t the only one in pain, after all.

“Thank you for dinner,” Len said, turned towards the door as he buttoned his coat. The lines of his back were taut and ready to snap at a moment’s notice. “It was a pleasure to meet you.”

“I’m sorry.”

Len cast a glance over his shoulder as he opened the door. Something too quick for her to name passed over his face. He reached into his pocket and offered her a slip of paper from within. She took it and realized her hands were trembling.

“My sister’s house phone number. In case you need anything.” The way he held her eyes this time felt important, meaningful.

 _Not tonight_ , they pleaded.  _Not tonight, please._

Iris cleared her throat as the ache sharpened. “Of course.” She plastered a thin smile on her cheeks. “Thank you. I hope to see you again.”

He nodded. She wished she could tell him that she wanted to have met under better circumstances where Barry was here and the distance between them wasn’t quite so vast a leap. Despite the promise of being able to call, she felt no less lost than she had months ago, or even at the funeral.

She let him whisper a polite goodnight and shut the door, staring at the wood with regrets and questions that would never be answered piling around her feet.

 

*

 

_“I thought I’d find you here.” He didn’t need to look away from the flask to recognize that quiet voice. His fingers tightened around it as he felt the other man brush his side as he sat next to him in the dirt. The contact, even through his thin shirt, buzzed against his skin._

_“Come for a drink?”_

_That drew forth a disbelieving snort. “I suppose if you’re offering.”_

_His lips curled. He held the flask out and glanced over, watching him take a swig of the alcohol and grimace at the burn. No matter how many times the other insisted that he wasn’t a lightweight, it was clear from his reactions to the alcohol that he didn’t drink much. It was amusing every time to watch that little crinkle appear between his eyes, his lips pinched together like he’d swallowed a lemon._

_He quickly turned his face away. Now wasn’t the time to spiral down the rabbit hole that came from admiring those lips._

_“This tastes awful.”_

_He laughed. “Gotta drink it fast.” He took back the flask and sipped from it._

_“I doubt that’d help.”_

_“You’d be surprised.”_

_The other hummed to acknowledge he’d heard but didn’t respond. They sat in silence, listening to their comrades finish supper feet behind them, talking about the women waiting back home for him. It was a common practice nowadays, just something to lift their spirits, given that it’d been nearly a year since they’d been thrown into this war._

_He’d listened to a few of the stories before, some of which sounded too outlandish to be true, but he didn’t particularly care to share any of his own. Not that he wanted to. Even with Mick, he’d never bragged about who he’d fucked the night before and he had never had a relationship long enough to ponder seriously._

_The man beside him –_ Barry, call me Barry _, he’d insisted brightly the day after they’d met, chuckling at the eye roll that had been sent his way_ –  _had never shared any stories of conquests with the group either. He’d been asked a couple instances, but he turned the offers down with pink cheeks every time._

 _It was only in private that he had spoken about it –_ not that I don’t trust the other guys, because I do, _he had stammered,_ but it’s personal.  _He hadn’t forgotten the reverent, soft way he’d said her name:_ Iris. _As if she were living among the stars and he was lucky enough to be able to hold her at all when she was made of stardust instead of flesh. He wrote letters to her every other day, smiling to himself as his pen moved like lightning over the paper._

_Sometimes he would watch him write, watch the pain and grief and worry fade from his features as he focused on pouring his thoughts on paper to this ‘Iris’. It was strangely calming, more so than drinking on some nights when the shadows in the darkness looked too much like dead faces or, to his horror, Lewis’ sneer._

_Good for him though, having someone to come home to, someone to_ marry _when this war ended. Not everyone could say they had someone they were sweet on who would wait for who-knew-how-long for someone who could be dead come next week._

_“Do you know what today is?”_

_He looked over, withdrawing himself from his thoughts. “Sometime in March. I think I heard Gomez talking about it being the end of the month. Why?”_

_The other blew out a shaky breath. The shift in his mood caused the alcohol to sting in his gut._

_“My birthday must have passed, then.”_

_He blinked. “Oh. Uh, happy late birthday, kid.”_

_“Still not a kid. But thanks.”_

_The tease fell flat on its face in its delivery; the other seemed dissatisfied and crossed his arms over his chest. He didn’t look twenty-five curling in on himself like that._

_The sting worsened._

_He sighed and set aside the flask. “What’s eating at you?”_

_It took a couple of moments before he responded, the raucous laughter from the rest of the soldiers ringing in their ears. A glint of something indescribably melancholy pushed its way steadily onto the other’s face._

_“Nothing, I just… I used to visit my mother in March too, on the day she died. It’s stupid but I – ” He frowned and rubbed the back of his neck, blinking rapidly. “I guess I just didn’t realize we’d be gone so long. I’ve never been this far from home.”_

_Ah. Homesickness._

_He didn’t know what to say. Comfort wasn’t his area of expertise, and he held little love for America as it was. It was home in mere name._ Lisa _was his home, and while he missed her, he also knew it was better that she wasn’t here to witness more horrors than she ever ought to know existed. They both knew enough about what mankind was capable of – he didn’t need to add more to her list._

 _The kid – Barry – had a fiancée and a family and a real home waiting for him. He had a steady job and people who loved him, people who wanted him to return for reasons outside of owing them money, which was more than_ he _could say, save in the case of Lisa._

_“Sorry, I know it sounds stupid,” he was saying, his hand tightening on the back of his neck. “I have more important things to worry about like the war and – ”_

_“There’s nothing shameful about being homesick, Barry.”_

_The other’s head jerked around and the tears in his eyes glistened. “What?”_

_He heaved a sigh and turned so he was facing the other with his whole body. Their legs knocked against each other as he did so. “Everyone gets homesick. Why do you think those idiots keep telling stories every night?” He jerked his thumb behind him. As if on cue, a pair of soldiers burst out laughing, perhaps a little too hysterically (though that might have been due to drinking; some of them couldn’t hold their liquor if their lives depended on it). “They’re all missing somebody, some place back home. Gives them hope that they’ll make it back. It’s what your girl’s probably doing too when she’s missing you.”_

_The man bit his lip. He suppressed the urge to nip at that reddening lower lip with his own teeth. “You think so?”_

_“I know so.”_

_The sorrow began to bleed away and he couldn’t help but feel relieved. It wasn’t much – most of the melancholic twinge lingered, especially around those bright eyes, mingling with his bags – but it was a start._

_“Thank you, Snart.”_

_He shook his head, the corners of his mouth twitching. “Call me Len, Barry. Only fair, after all.”_

_The other chuckled and stared off toward the trees. The tense line in his shoulders eased, as if an anvil had been lifted from his back. “Very well. Len it is.”_

_A couple of their comrades came over then to slap them on the back, laughing and urging them to join in drinking and telling stories. It took more than a few pointed looks before they left the pair alone, marching off to the others with booming voices and shoving each other like a pair of high schoolers._

_Never let it be said that grown men couldn’t act like children._

_“She’s stronger than you think, by the way. Iris, I mean. She’s the strongest person I know.”_

_The relief dropped out of his stomach as he turned his gaze toward the horizon. The sun was setting soon, splashes of orange and pink flaring like beacons across the sky._

_“Oh?”_

_“Yeah. If she could have signed up with me, I’m sure she would have. She helps people every day though, works on writing about the war for the paper and what folks back home can do to aid the war effort. Spreads the word, you know?” The pride in his tone was blatant, bringing the ghost of a smile to his lips. “She always puts other people before herself.”_

_A perfect match, by the sound of it. It took effort not to allow his hand to clench on his thigh._

_“Sounds like a keeper.” His smirk was bland at best, utterly false and sardonic, yet the other smiled back with such undisguisable fondness that he wished he could mean those words._

_Fuck. This could be a problem._

*

 

Iris didn’t call. She spent the following week burying herself in work and avoiding the attic with renewed fervor. She had wanted to call the night after Len’s visit, wanted to ask about anything if it meant receiving an answer about Barry, but overwhelming him with interrogations didn’t sit right with her. All she had to do was picture the pleading look in his eyes before he left and her hand felt leaden on the phone.

So she waited and she worked and she continued as if nothing had changed.

It turned out that she didn’t need to call Len first to see him again, though.

She got out of her car one Saturday night to find him on her doorstep again, this time sitting rather than standing on her porch. It was well after dinner, nearly ten o’clock. She’d stayed late to help Linda edit her newest article, losing herself in work at Linda’s apartment before the two remembered they ought to call it a night.

Iris found herself pausing again at the sight of a (somewhat) stranger on her porch. He was in the same shabby, dark coat but his eyes were drooping with drowsiness and his shirt was noticeably rumpled, as if he’d tossed it on as an afterthought.

The dark bags under his eyes stood stark against his skin. They seemed more prominent than they had a week before.

The rush of déjà vu didn’t escape her notice.

“How long have you been out here?” Iris asked.

Len lifted his chin and stood. He wasn’t as tense as the last time, but there was something jerky about his movements that sent alarm bells ringing in her head. “Not long. Late night?”

“Yeah. Had to help a friend.” She watched him nod before pulling out her key and heading for the front door. “I don’t suppose you’re here for dinner?”

A smirk played on his lips. “Sadly, no. I already ate. Though I wouldn’t turn down the chance to eat more of that tuna noodle casserole again.”

Iris laughed, the sound quiet but no less sharp in the evening air. “I’ll make more next time.”

She had hoped he would laugh with her, but his smirk faded at the edges. Maybe it was the mention of a “next time” that unnerved him (which seemed odd given that it was he who had shown up for a second visit). The silence stretched.

She opened the front door and gestured for Len to enter first. He stepped inside after only a moment of hesitation. Iris shut the door behind them and began pulling off her coat, watching him do the same with his own in a much slower manner. The instinct to flee was evident in his rigid stance, as if he were anticipating the second she decided to throw him out onto the porch.

She still wanted to ask about Barry, about whether he was here to give her answers tonight, but the glazed look in his eyes caused her to swallow those demands. She nodded toward the kitchen. “Do you want water? Anything to drink?”

“Just water would be lovely.”

Iris smiled and headed to grab them two glasses, the sense of déjà vu returning the more she focused on the task at hand. She filled them quickly and turned, surprised to see Len had followed her into the room. He looked lost, scanning the walls and cabinets with keen eyes – taking in his surroundings, Iris realized. Something about the idea of Len being on his guard, even when he only had Iris for company, made her want to reach out and take his hand, whisper assurances that he was okay, that he was safe.

“Here.” She tamped down on the urge and handed him his glass. He murmured thanks and took a small gulp, still scrutinizing the kitchen as he averted his gaze.

Iris cleared her throat and Len’s eyes snapped to meet hers. “I hope you don’t mind me asking, but are you alright?”

"Peachy,” he said, starting to take on a caustic tone.

“Are you sure?”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. The sense that she was trespassing onto a sensitive subject crept in. “Positive.” 

She tried not to wince at his drawl, but she must not have succeeded – a crease formed in Len’s brow, beginning to erase the hard stare. Iris looked away.

Not for the first time, she wished Barry were here to tell her what to say.

(She also wondered if she would be having a similar conversation with her fiancé if he were here in the kitchen instead of Len, his eyes drooping from exhaustion but still sharp in the low lighting, lying through his teeth with false grins and _I’m fine, Iris, I promise_.

That thought brought forth a wave of nausea.)

After several minutes, Len heaved a sigh. “Couldn’t stay at home. Too confining. I… I didn’t want to wake my sister.”

Iris opened her mouth before closing it just as swiftly. His words left little for her to read between the lines. The fact that he had no friends to go to, that _she_ was his first choice, was a strange thought.

She’d had her fair share of nightmares since the telegram had arrived – hell, she’d had nightmares since before Barry shipped out, worrying about everything that could happen while he was away, everything that could happen to her brother and her father and even herself in the process. Barry had been there to comfort her when they had started, just as she had comforted him when he was a child after his mother died, but she had always taken to talking about them with someone while he was overseas. It was painful, and not always pleasant, but she had gotten better about it before the telegram.

Now she was the one trying to hold Wally and her father together, even as they tried to do the same for her.

“You couldn’t talk to about…what happened?” Len didn’t seem like the type to share his feelings easily, so she wasn’t too surprised. Still, Barry had mentioned that Lisa was just as important to Len as Iris was to Barry, if not more. Surely he would have told her _something._

He shrugged. She got the sense he was dismissing how on-edge he felt. “Didn’t want to worry her.”

 _What about me?_  Iris wanted to ask.  _Why are you here with me, then?_

What she said instead was “Do you want to sit down?”

Len paused, and that uncertain gleam was back, hiding along the seams of his nonchalant expression. She didn’t push, simply waited and hoped she looked welcoming rather than hopeful. She was as lost as he was, after all.

He took a sip from his glass without taking his eyes off her. The harsh lines around his features began to fade.

“That would be nice,” he said, his voice low.

 

*

 

_At times he missed Lisa’s voice, missed the way she called out his shit when he was in denial and refused to cope, missed her steely determination to get things done even if it cost her an arm and a leg to do so._

_If Lisa were here, she would’ve laughed before her amusement gave way to mixed pity and understanding._

_(She would’ve also said he was moping or brooding, which he was_ not _, thank you very much.)_

_He halted in his pacing and took a swig from one of the bottles he’d swiped from Collins’ stash. The guy was currently snoring like a freight train – he doubted he’d miss it. Besides, it was going to a good cause._

_His hands were still shaking from holding Barry down as the medic stitched his wound, finishing the suture with impeccable focus while Barry cried out against the pain._

_Damn idiot shouldn’t have thrown himself in front of that shell if he hadn’t wanted to deal with the consequences._

_The memory of the other’s face, the resolve written on his brow as he had yelled at the rest of them to hit the dirt, seared his brain like a brand. He drank again, this time swallowing a larger gulp. Half the bottle was already gone._

_He was going to owe Collins two whole bottles at this rate._

_Shutting his eyes didn’t help. Pacing didn’t help._

_He didn’t like this feeling, didn’t like the sheer panic that had ignited in his chest when he had seen the shell go off. He’d seen countless soldiers die. One more shouldn’t matter, didn’t have to matter._

_“Drinking again?”_

_Speak of the devil._

_“You know, I would say something about alcoholism being the death of you but…”_

_He whipped around, an unfamiliar pressure gripping his heart with clawed hands. The man was still bandaged and shirtless, standing outside the tent with one hand pressed to his side and an eyebrow raised. The clear amusement he held behind green eyes made him want to scream as he remembered how he’d screamed hours before._

_“You ought to be resting. You nearly died.”_

_“And let you drink yourself to death while I sleep? Absolutely not.”_

_How could he be so casual, so blasé about the situation? His hand tightened on the neck of the bottle. “I’m fine. You, on the other hand, are not.” He walked over, hating how visible the bruises were across the other’s skin, hating the sight of the sutures on his chest. “Now come on. Before the medic straps you down for wandering off and pulling his handiwork.”_

_“Honestly, Len, I’m fine,” he protested, though the fact that he didn’t fight the grip on his upper arm as he was dragged back into the tent was telling. “You heard him, I’m going to be alright.”_

_“Not if you’re exerting yourself. Trust me, I’ve pulled more than a few of my fair share of stitches when I was a kid and it’s a bitch to redo.”_

_Both eyebrows shot up, which would’ve been comical had the other not been wearing that cheeky grin. “You’ve got no room to talk. I saw you last week when you had to get your wound redressed after you snuck out of the tent. You break the rules all the time.”_

_“_ Barry _.”_

_“Really, Len. I’m fine. Promise.”_

_He pulled the other to a stop, spinning on his heel to face the taller man. The grin was beginning to vanish the longer he stared, mixed confusion and sobriety overtaking his features. With his hair mussed from sleep and the curious frown, he looked the perfect picture of a lost puppy._

_He could still smell the blood on his skin, see the way he ground his teeth together as they carried him out of the field, feel the tremble of his bones as he held down his shoulders, murmured that the medic was almost done, that he was going to be fine –_

_Maybe it was the buzz under his skin from the alcohol or the rising frustration because the kid didn’t_ get it _that made him drop the bottle onto the bed, not caring about the spluttering that started because of the now-stained bedsheets, the bottle already forgotten, hardly thinking as he used both hands to cup his face and crush his mouth against the other’s into a bruising kiss._

 _The contact was like a punch to the gut, the realization of what he was doing – he was engaged, what the_ hell _was he thinking – slamming into him with the force of the same shell that had nearly struck the man he was kissing. The gasp it wrought was expected, completely deserved, causing his grip to soften on those cheeks. Aside from the initial rough connection, he didn’t push, didn’t do more than press. It was a bad idea, he knew he was going to regret it, he already did – but god, how he wanted to continue, to press forward and lick his way into that beautiful mouth._

_He forced himself to pull away after a second, breathing heavily._

_“Len, what – ”_

_He needed air. He needed to get out of this tent._

_He stepped back, letting his hands fall, aiming to leave and forget the last minute had happened if the other would let him (Barry wasn’t cruel, he wouldn’t be, he’d seen the way he’d reacted when Jones had whispered about his boy back home late one night, eyes aglow with affection). The shaking in his hands persisted – damn the kid, damn this war, damn everything – and he willed himself to take steady breaths, forcing himself not to snap as he made to sidestep –_

_A pair of hands seized him by the shirt, stopping him and pulling him about to face the other. He nearly ducked his head before he thought better of it – too big of a tell, he couldn’t give anything more away than he already had – and met those wide eyes with his own stare._

_Indecision warred across the other’s face, his chapped, reddening lips curled into a frown. He felt naked under the knowing stare, without a plan out of this situation._

_“Why did you do that?” The words are nearly inaudible, carefully spoken._

_He wanted to sneer but any adrenaline, any surge of energy left over, was already gone. “We both know you’re not oblivious, Barry.”_

_The other winced and – ah, there was the uncomfortable twitch. Next would be the strained smile, the “I’m sorry but we can’t” (not that he didn’t know they couldn’t,_ hadn’t _already known that before he’d shot himself in the foot so spectacularly)._

_“Len, I – ”_

_“Save it. I know. It was a mistake. Don’t worry about it, kid.”_

_He tried to step back again but the tight grip held him in place. He sent the other a questioning look._

_A growl left those kiss-bruised lips, eyes flashing with an emotion he couldn’t decipher. “God, you drive me crazy, you know that?”_

_And before he could think of a response, he was yanked into a much messier kiss, hands twisting in his shirt as if the other were afraid of losing_ him _._

_If he were a better man, he would have pulled back, told him what a terrible idea this was and reminded him of Iris, who was waiting for him to return in one piece, who deserved better than this._

_Instead, he wound his own hands into that unruly hair and held on for dear life._

*

 

It became routine before Len realized what he was doing. Sneaking out when he couldn’t sleep, sometimes waking up whenever he _did_ sleep then throwing on the nearest pair of trousers and shirt before he was out the door and wound up on Iris West’s porch became instinct. He wasn’t sure how, or why, it was easier to run to her house and sit on the sofa in silence while she made a late dinner or wrote notes about articles she had to edit later for work ( _she’s always helping people,_ Barry had said once, that adoring look causing his stomach to twist itself into knots, _she’s good at reminding people about why they should care about the world, why they need to be kind to others_ ). They occasionally made small talk on nights when Len was more awake and interested in responding to Iris’ questions or when he noticed something in her writing that caught his eye. More often than not, though, they remained quiet and he found himself nearly falling asleep on her sofa many a time before he persuaded himself to get up and leave.

Lisa had begun to take notice of his absences. He would be more shocked if she hadn’t, truthfully. The night terrors had been happening for longer than he had returned to America, but he’d never left the apartment because of them. Every time he pictured explaining the situation to her – talking about what had happened with the war, what it was like to watch comrades die in a split-second, about Barry and the way he’d wormed his way under his skin until he tore Len apart from the inside-out – he saw the tears in Iris’ eyes as she begged to know what had become of her husband-to-be, the desperation behind her steady hands.

It wasn’t that Lisa wouldn’t understand. She knew him best, she would understand his intentions better than anyone else.

The thought of facing her and having to sit down and discuss why he hadn’t been himself lately, why he’d been distant when she’d asked him not-so-subtly about his late-night excursions, was enough to make him feel ill.

Barry wouldn’t have chickened out like this if he had been the one to survive. It was the truth, unfortunately, and Len knew it, had accepted it.

He also would gladly cling to the truth with both hands until the day he died before having to tell Lisa or Iris what they wanted to hear.

Iris would never look at him with those increasingly fond, yet sad, looks when she thought he wasn’t paying attention if she knew what he and her fiancé had done while they were off fighting for two years. She would never smile so patiently at him when he found himself sharing a story about how Barry got drunk one night and he’d had to carry the ridiculous man away from the other soldiers before he sang yet another rendition of Sinatra if she had seen their stolen kisses and whispered promises in the dark.

The worst part was that he could never hate Iris, even if he hadn’t known Barry or heard a lick about her from the man, could never blurt out the truth with a mocking smile and watch her shatter before his eyes. The familiarity and comfortable quiet they had gotten used to over the past month or so was…nice. She didn’t push more than necessary for information – though there had been a few nights where they pushed each other’s buttons and clashed on an argument, likely over something pointless or an article she wanted an opinion for – despite how badly Len could tell she wanted to. She was simply there and ready for him to collapse on her sofa like the situation was normal, like they were friends who had done this for years.

Sometimes Len caught a glimpse of her own baggage and ghosts lingering at the corners of her eyes, the way her expression would shift into one of yearning when they mentioned Barry or a fond memory. He never poked at those sore spots, never prodded more than he had to, but the open distress she was starting to forget to hide sent new waves of sorrow through him every time. More than once, Len had had to stop himself before he did something reckless like brush strays curls out of her face when they fell from their pins or trace his thumb over her lower lip as it trembled when their discussions of Barry grew to be too much.

If Mick were still hanging around Central these days, he would have snorted and said, “Only you would think about fucking two people at the same time, Snart.”

Which he _wasn’t_ doing. He wasn’t stupid: neither he nor Iris were in the right place of mind for anything like that, and Len wasn’t about to sink low enough to “helping” a widow get over her fiancé like that. That wouldn’t be fair to either of them.

(Besides, _Mick_ , he had done more than _think_ about fucking Barry.)

Still, Iris’ growing presence in his life was a problem. He knew the road this would lead toward if he did indeed do nothing about it. He’d made that mistake over the course of two years and he wasn’t about to let it happen again.

 

*

 

_The knock on the door was sharp, startling her from where she was in the kitchen, preparing lunch._

_“Another letter?” Linda teased from the living room. She had come over to help edit her newest article after it’d been kicking her ass for two days, claiming some collaboration wouldn’t hurt. The fact that Wally was upstairs cleaning out her attic, dressed only in his undershirt, certainly had nothing to do with it._

_“Oh, shush.” Still, her heart skipped a beat in her chest at the thought and she quickly wiped her hands on her apron before hurrying to answer the door. Part of her wanted to stall, remembering the tone of his last letter, the nervous scrawl, as if he were running out of courage to say what he wanted._

_She couldn’t do that to Barry, though. It had only been two days since his letter had reached her. She hadn’t written a response, hadn’t known how to, but she knew she couldn’t ignore the man she loved simply because she didn’t understand._

_The soldier standing on her porch was grim-faced, his jaw set with dark, sad eyes. Her hand stilled on the door handle as she stared back at him._

_“Miss Iris West?”_

_“I… Yes, that’s me.” She couldn’t help the way her words slowed, her gaze drifting over the man’s form. Her eyes rested on a piece of paper between his fingers._

_He must have noticed where she was staring; he held out the paper, the weight of that sad look churning in her stomach like yesterday’s lunch. “Telegram for you, ma’am.”_

_She wanted to ask why he was here, why she was receiving a letter like this, but part of her was already sinking to the floor. Her hands shook as she took the paper, her eyes falling to the inked words._

_It took her less than a minute to read the telegram. She heard Linda call her name, heard the soldier who had delivered the letter whisper his condolences, but there was a dull roar in her ears that overtook both of their voices._

_By the time Wally came down from the attic to ask where his sister wanted her box of old dresses, Linda was running to the door at the sound of her knees hitting the ground, her strangled sobs filling the spring air as the soldier looked on in pity, as if he understood perfectly that her life had shattered like her father’s good china before her eyes._

*

 

“I got worried. Haven’t seen you since the day before Halloween.”

Len glanced at Iris over his next sip of tea. She had her eyes glued to her papers, biting her lip hard as she scanned the next bulleted line she’d written. Her hair was pulled free from its pins tonight, falling loose around her shoulders in messy curls.

“I was busy.” Which was true. Lisa had asked him to come with her to her new beau’s school for their staff Halloween party. Not to dress up or mingle, he knew, but to meet the beau himself. He had made plenty of excuses the first two times she’d tried to set up a meeting, claiming to be looking into apartments – which he actually had yet to do – but Lisa knew him too well to be mollified.

The party wasn’t terrible. The teacher Lisa was so fond of had a bright, sheepish smile and dark hair that fell in his eyes when Lisa caused him to blush. Len refrained from making any threats or sly comments (for the most part).

It was nice to see his sister smile. Ramon made her happy, and that was all he could ask of the man. Besides, he seemed a decent fellow. Not once had he leered or touched Lisa anywhere improper.

Len hadn’t thought Iris would notice if he stayed away for a few days more after the holiday. Something about the adoring looks Ramon had cast Lisa’s way, and her similarly fond smiles, made his insides twist unpleasantly.

He remembered days when Barry had met his eyes with knowing stares, his mouth upturned at the corners as he fought back smirks behind their fellow privates’ backs, his hand ghosting briefly over the back of Len’s before they moved out. Iris looked at him with those same stares these days, whether she knew it or not. He would be blind not to have noticed her reluctance for him to leave on the last night he’d come, her fingers lingering on his arm as she told him it was getting late and he ought to sleep.

Len’s life had spiraled out of control few times, more often when he was younger and less capable of saying no to Lewis. He didn’t think he’d be able to deny Iris West much longer.

“They’re not getting better?” she asked him now. She sounded genuinely curious.

They had rarely spoken about his night terrors. Len had never seen the need to describe them to her. It wasn’t as if they were important.

He had only been asleep for an hour before he’d relived the day he met Barry. He hadn’t been able to stay in the apartment after that, couldn’t deny the need to get out and breathe in the city air.

“Not by much,” he admitted.

Iris’ brow furrowed. She still hadn’t looked up from her notes.

“You could see a doctor. They might be able to help.”

He doubted that. “Maybe.”

“Lisa could too. Does she know you come here?”

“She knows I leave late and come back before the sun comes up.”

Iris set aside the paper she had been reading, moving to the next one with a soft hum. Stray curls bounced in front of her eyes.

With her hair undone, biting her lip and focusing on the ink before her, she looked radiant. Len wanted nothing more than to cup her cheek, distract her from her work.

“Maybe she could help. I used to talk about my nightmares with my family. Sometimes with my friends too, and Barry.”

Her fiancé’s name jolted him from his traitorous thoughts. Len set his tea on the table, feeling a familiar itch in his bones. “Talking doesn’t always help.”

“Doesn’t mean you can’t try.”

Len paused. Her head was still bent over her notes but the frown on her face was hardly hidden.

They weren’t talking about Lisa anymore.

“War is hell, to put it simply,” he said. “That’s enough of a mental picture for you.”

“He would’ve wanted me to know, Len.”

She wasn’t wrong. “Maybe. But not like this.”

Iris sighed. “Like what, then? When will it be okay for me to know? In a week? A year? When I’m in my sixties, still widowed and reminiscing about what might have been?”

“Iris – ”

She finally looked up, her brown eyes bright with emotion, blazing like wildfire. It was difficult not to pull away, to stand and walk out the front door before she could demand more from him. “I just want to know what happened. That’s all I’m asking of you, Len. I know it hurts to think of him and I know you miss Barry as much as I do – ”

Len’s heart constricted. “Iris, don’t – ”

“ – but he wouldn’t want this. Damn it, _I_ don’t want this.”

“This isn’t fun for me either,” he snapped before he could hold his tongue.

“Then tell me!”

“I’m not withholding information because it’s a game or because I think you can’t handle the truth.” His hands curled into fists in his lap. Every nerve in his body screamed at him to leave. “But I’ve had more than enough experience to understand when it’s better not to know. Trust me on this.”

“He loved you.”

Len couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak. His throat went dry and he stared.

Iris shook her head when he didn’t reply, disappointment crossing her face. Her hands shook so she ran them through her hair, averting her eyes.

“He loved you,” she said again. Her voice dropped in volume, almost a whisper. “He told me in his last letter that he’d known for some time, that he didn’t want to hurt me because he loved me just as much as he loved you.”

He wanted to speak but her words echoed like gongs in his head, like a gunshot piercing his chest.

“I never sent a reply. I didn’t know what to say. What was I supposed to say to that?” She choked on the words, pressing one hand to her lips. “Then I got the telegram and…”

_And it was too late._

Len stared at her anguished expression.

He ought to comfort her, impart words of wisdom or apologize for what he’d done, for what Barry had done too. He ought to have seen this coming. Maybe he should have planned to tell her from the get-go, left it at that so she would never have allowed him into her home, allowed to eat dinner with her and tell stories of her fiancé like he had any right to be there.

Barry had never told him he loved him. Len had never said anything similar, hadn’t thought it would matter either way at the time since they had only begun their rendezvouses for a few months.

“It was May.” The words came unbidden but he couldn’t have bitten them back if he’d wanted to. Iris turned to face him.

“We were pinned down in a trench, the whole company. Half of us were wounded, one of the men – Jones – was bleeding out from a shot to the chest, and we had no choice but to act.”

It was Len who looked away now. His eyes found a picture of Barry and Iris smiling across the room, rings gleaming on their fingers as they looked at one another with utter devotion. Anyone could see how in love they were, how badly they were trying to hide their excitement.

“I had a couple of grenades left. Most of us were out of ammunition, so I said I’d cover them after I’d pulled the pins and thrown ’em.” A hollow smile ghosted his lips. “Barry hated the plan. He tried to get me to change my mind, but we were out of time.”

He remembered the resigned look in those eyes, the pleading words as Barry seized his arm. The man was already wounded, having been shot in the leg before Len had managed to pull him into the trench. Dirt was smeared around his cheeks like war paint and his grip tightened the more Len had argued.

“I tossed the first one and most of the group made a run for it.” The explosion went off in his ears and Len barely suppressed the flinch. “One of them slammed into me from the side as they were climbing out and I… I dropped the second one after I pulled the pin. We were halfway out of the trench ourselves.”

Barry’s wide green eyes stared back at him as he looked up from the dirt, his heart pounding as the realization set in that this was the moment, this was going to go off and it was his fault –

“Barry shoved me away.”

Iris made a noise, as if she were being bled dry, but he didn’t dare turn.

The second explosion went off and his whole body stiffened. He heard himself scream, heard a few of his comrades yell too, more likely out of surprise at the close range of the grenade. His ears rang and his limbs shook and he had to see if Barry was okay, if he’d made it, if he’d run because he was always a fast runner –

“We had to drag the injured out of there.”

“ _Stop_.”

Len shut his eyes. He didn’t know when he’d started crying.

“God, _please._ Just stop.”

He rose and swallowed his pride. Without waiting for her to continue or to call him back or tell him to go, he walked to the hall in little more than a hasty retreat. He rubbed a hand over his eyes, as if he could erase the tears trailing down his cheeks with enough effort and didn’t bother throwing on his coat before he walked through the doorway and into the chill of the autumn night, his heart lodged somewhere deep in his gut.

The soft whisper of Barry’s voice followed his footsteps, shadows of warm hands caressing his wet cheeks.

_I know she’ll understand. If anyone can, Iris will._

 

*

_“Do you think we’ll go home soon?”_

_He sighed. “I don’t know.”_

_“It’s been years. I just… I don’t know. I thought the war would’ve ended by now.”_

_He had hoped so too. “It’s been going on for longer than we’ve been fighting, Barry. We don’t get a say in when we get to leave.”_

_“I guess.”_

_“You guess?”_

_The smile faded off the lips pressed against his neck. He could feel the other man fighting a frown. He moved his hands down to rub his thumbs on the back of the other’s hands, soft and gentle._

_“I don’t know.”_

_Turning his head, he opened his eyes to see the little flecks of brown in the other’s irises staring back at him. “You feel alright?”_

_It took a moment before Barry sent him a smile, thin-lipped and too pained to be true._

_“I’m just fine.”_

*

 

For the first time in months, she went through the letters, forced herself to climb the ladder to the attic and pull down the box she’d shoved them in. She poured over every line, swallowed with her heart in her throat as she allowed herself to cry, careful not to drip on the paper.

_Dear Iris, I miss you like hell. It’s been only a week and I can’t stop thinking about you._

_Dear Iris, I met someone today. I think you’d like him. He’s a good man, Iris. He doesn’t think so, and he may act like an ass at times, but he is. If you were here, you’d see it too._

_Dear Iris, I can’t believe it’s been a year since I left. The war feels like it’s been dragging on for forever. Some of the boys keep saying we’ll be going home soon. I hope they’re right._

_Dear Iris, We had a calm day today so I found the time to write. I don’t ask about them much, but how are Joe and Wally? Did Joe finally look into wedding rings for Cecile? Tell him I send my best wishes._

_Dear Iris, Len says he’d love to come over for dinner after the war (even if I had to weasel that out of him – he’s a stubborn mule when he wants to be). He says he isn’t picky about what he’d eat. He’s now teasing me about writing that. You two would get on like a house on fire._

_Dear Iris, Congratulations on getting the article printed! I wish I could see it. Save a copy of the paper for me when I get back._

_Dear Iris, I miss you more and more. I hope things are going well back home. You sounded worried in your last letter._

_Dear Iris, I’m sorry._

She clutched the final letter to her chest, the impulse to crumple it and toss it across the attic swelling the longer she sobbed.

 

*

 

Two weeks passed. She finally told her father and Wally about Len, about her nightmares, about Barry.

They took it as well as she had.

Len hadn’t come to her door yet. She wondered if Lisa was as worried as she was.

 

*

 

Linda asked about the bags under her eyes. She wanted to know how she’d been sleeping, if she needed anything.

 _Not well_ , she’d wanted to say. Linda had always been good at reading her, though, and pulled her into a hug.

“You can talk to me about anything, you know that, right?”

Iris nodded. “Of course.”

That night she awoke with a scream, feeling as if she had been in that trench with Barry, staring helplessly at him as he pushed Len away.

 

*

 

The crowd in _Jitters_ is sparse today. She was lucky enough to get a table near the back, spreading her notes on the surface of the table to reread the quotes she’d gotten from last week’s interview. Linda was running late, likely caught-up working on her own interview with a widowed woman who lived in the apartment above her.

It was fine, though. Gave her time to look over her notes before she sat down to write the article.

Iris thanked the waitress as she brought her coffee, flashing a smile in her direction. The poor woman deserved a raise. She’d been working at _Jitters_ for ten years. She decided she’d leave a tip before she left.

A shadow fell over the table. Iris looked up and the question on her lips died.

“How are you?” She grimaced the moment the words came out. “No, never mind. Silly question, I know.”

Len’s hands were still in his coat pockets, his nose reddening from the cold. She hoped to see him smirk or even smile in response, but he just stared like he wasn’t certain she was real. “Could be better.”

Iris hesitated, glancing at the table and her mess of papers. “Do you… Do you want to sit?”

It was like the first time they’d met all over again, when she’d fought to understand the man her fiancé had fallen in love with and yearned to know more about the man she’d lost. Awkward. Uneasy. Tense.

He shook his head. “Best not.”

“I don’t bite.”

This time she thought she saw that familiar amusement glitter behind his eyes. Only for a split-second, though.

“That a promise, Miss West?”

“As long as you promise to call me Iris, like you have been,” she told him. The words were sterner than she’d meant them to be, but his expression softened. He looked vulnerable, like he had already figured out what she was going to say and wanted nothing more than to relax and have a cup of coffee with her.

Iris stood her ground, patting the table. “Just for a few minutes. Unless you have somewhere to be?”

Judging by the look in his eyes, he certainly didn’t. She held her breath as he studied her. Maybe he was searching for judgment or some sign that she would snap, turn on a dime and berate him for everything.

She was too tired to fight. She was angry and hurt and exhausted of pretending and all she wanted was to have coffee with someone she knew.

Len took the seat across from her, moving as slow as he had while removing his coat so long ago. Had it really only been a couple months since they’d met? A voice that sounded suspiciously like Barry’s cheered in the back of her brain. The thought made her duck her head to hide a sad smile.

“As long as I’m not interrupting.” Len gestured toward her papers.

Iris shook her head, and before she could think better of it, she reached out and laid her hand on his. He stiffened under her touch, but she didn’t pull away, meeting his intense gaze with one of her own.

_I love him. I love him as much as I love you and always have loved you since we were little and I first knew what the word “love” meant. I know it doesn’t make sense, and I know you’re confused, but I swear I love the both of you more than my heart can tell._

“Never,” she whispered.

**Author's Note:**

> Come scream with me on my DCTV Tumblr @areyouscarletcold. Comments are always appreciated, and have a great day!


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